Iago was beginning to tire of hanging upside-down.  He was sure that he’d been at it for a full candle-mark at the least, judging by the splitting headache and growing nausea he felt.  Frankly, the pitch darkness of the dungeon he resided in made all other forms of estimation impossible.  A normal man might have considered suicide at this point, but Iago had never considered himself a normal man.  The fact that he was to become a guinea pig for various new forms of exotic torture - at least, so far as he could glean from his heavily accented guards - only acted as further impetus towards his new main goal: Escape.  He would escape this hellish prison and...and then what?  He turned his head from side to side, then blinked.  In the two weeks that had seemed to pass, only the escape plan had really demanded his attention.  Yet now, with nothing better to do, boredom had allowed a new game to begin.  
“I think I shall destroy Cassio,” he rasped, his voice having been used for naught but screaming for the last few ‘days’.  “Yes, my heart’s utter delight within his dying breath shall be contained.”  At once he realized the folly of indulging himself: in his state, he hadn’t the strength required to soliloquize.  The pain in his head soared to greater heights than he would have liked, though only for the time it took for him to slip into blissful unconsciousness.  

“Is it alive?”  said a thin, reedy voice in the darkness, off to his left and behind.

“Looks like it,” another, gruffer one from roughly the same direction, “he’s still breathin’, I’ll warrant.”
Iago opened his eyes a crack.  Although he could not see them directly, their torches splayed their shadows across the far wall.  They were both stooped over, and seeming of unkempt manner.  From their lack of French accents, he assumed that they were not part of the guard staff.  
“Marry, this is getting us nowhere!” the first man again, sounding somewhat annoyed.  “Why the blazes am I following you, anyway?”
“Because you’re my bleeding partner, and you expect a cut of that job we was offered,” the gruff one this time, a hint of menace very apparent now.  “They mean to spring us, after all.  Besides, it’s a once in a lifetime thing to work for-“ the large one paused, shifting in ways that suggested searching for an unseen foe.  Iago felt the urge to attempt speech again.
“You shan’t have need to search thus in this pit,” his voice came a bit stronger and clearer than it had, though he still felt pain at it. “The guards above do not bother to search below ofttimes.”
The two men circled around into his view.  Though both stooped, he could see that one was a veritable giant of a man, tall and powerfully built.  His companion was considerably shorter, though still of an athletic semblance.  Both had full beards and long, unkempt hair.  It was the latter who spoke first, turning out to be the one with the gruff voice.  

“‘Zounds!  Get him down, Vespecci!”  The large one stood tall, stepped forward, and gripped the chain holding Iago aloft.  Pinching one of the links between two massive forefingers, he gave a twist that resulted in a clear, resounding snap.  Iago found himself plummeting to the floor, thankfully only a span of a foot or so from his dangling hands.  He lay sprawled and panting, the throbbing in his head and extremities slowly subsiding.   
Imagine if they’d found you after your ‘landlord’ had begun to torture you...  He smiled inwardly at his own fortune.  
“A fine wretch you are, sirrah,” intoned the one called Vespecci, stroking his voluminous beard, “and the only life we’ve seen beside ourselves and the guards, at that.  You say you know of the workings of this pit?”
“Forsooth, but little,” he replied, shakily rising to his feet.  “Of the guard deployment, I know but what I hath been told: I shall be retrieved for a worser punishment in three days, and ne’er see another soul until.  Having arrived but recently in this particular place, I would say yon guards will be a time in coming, should they believe my cell isolated as I once did.”  He swayed a bit on his feet, slowly stretching his arms and legs a few times.  By some quirk of fate, he remained unshackled.  His current compatriots bore cuffs and the remnants of chains, however the companion articles had likely fallen to Vespecci’s peculiar talents.  
“Perchance a third set of limbs could be of use to us in our plan?” the giant wondered aloud.
“I wish not to divvy our earnings any more than is necessary, friend,” the menace in the smaller man’s voice continued.  Iago made a mental note to stay on his good side until he decided to kill him.  “Who the ‘ell are you, anyway?”
“Iago of Venice, at your service,” he made a clumsy attempt at a bow, inciting Vespecci to steady him.  “To whom do I owe the honour...?”

“Romario the Knife, and my associate, Vespecci the Strangler.  Both until recently of Verona.” He seemed to puff up with pride at this assertion, as if Iago were somehow meant to be impressed.  Realizing that he had not been, he added: “Famous assassins extra ordinaires, of course.”
“Of course,” replied Iago, still unimpressed.  “You spoke of earnings, which I have to assume would come from thine chosen profession as thieves of the Lord’s temple.  Who employ’st thou?”
“Only the finest and richest of Verona’s elite families,” it was Vespecci’s turn to swell with pride, nearly eclipsing the torch in his compatriot’s hand.  “We have been hired by the great Montenegro de Capulet himself to murder some twit of a mercenary.”
Iago considered taking offence at this slur, despite his recent forced retirement from that line of work.  Thinking better of it, he considered instead the now very real possibility of escape.
“List thee, good sirs, for I have a proposition,” he intoned, a small gleam in his eye. “I shall aid you in your attempt to quit this squalid place of torment under conditions twain: Firstly, that I may accompany’st thee hence from this place; and secondly, that I may seek thy skills on the completion of the task ascribed to you, for a fair-born fee.”
The two murderers exchanged glances for a moment, considering this statement.  It occurred to him that if he were ever to start re-establishing his persona as ‘Honest’ Iago, he may as well begin with all haste.  A pair of desperate criminals seemed as good a starting place as any for this end.  
“If you have a job for us, we’re more than interested,” said Vespecci, removing a flagstone in the opposite wall to open a hitherto unseen (and possibly non-existent) passage.  
“Just remember one thing: If you cross us, you will not die.  My associate here will simply break your legs and return you to a place near to this room.  I can assure you that the establishment does not take kindly to those who attempt escape.”  With that threat in place, the trio made their way through the opening into the catacombs of the mysterious prison.

The tunnels seemed to stretch on for leagues, winding and twisting in a dizzying number of directions.  From the looks of things, this particular prison had been built atop a massive network of natural caverns, which had actually been used as part of it at some point.  This was rather startlingly evidenced by an abundance of skeletal remains chained to various walls.  Iago soon noticed that this was not the only unusual factor in this place, however.  Often he could hear the sound of running water very close by, and the walls seemed very damp in spots.  He also noted how the path they followed felt remarkably like some sort of spiral, climbing ever upward.    “The poor sods responsible for this place’ve been dead for ages,” Romario mused, when questioned about their route.  “No living man aside from yourself, Vespecci, and me is aware of this place anymore.  It’ll be our little secret, ‘specially if you fancy having a tongue when you’re on the surface.”
Iago merely nodded.  It was not in his nature to think of a situation as being more than he could handle; however, he was nonetheless anxious about his chances of survival around such villains.  He knew for a fact that Romario did not trust him.  He also had noticed that the giant seemed to defer to him, whether out of respect or fear was questionable.  If it were the latter, there would be naught but trouble for him should he slip up.  Though perpetually skulking, he moved with a preternatural grace that made Iago’s hackles rise slightly.  Versed in combat as he was, the fact that Romario was very skilled in his line of work was clear as day.  Should worse come to worse, he wondered if that experience would be enough to protect his throat.  Vespecci cleared his own throat, de-railing Iago’s train of thought (of which none of the passengers survived, sadly).
“What did they land you in here for, anyway?” the giant inquired.

It occurred to Iago that telling the absolute truth about his recent misadventures could raise a deal of ire in these men.  Thinking it through in a flash, an ironic new spin on those events came to him in a flash.  
“My dear friend Vespecci,” he intoned with bitter gravity, “I have been here imprisoned unjustly, through means of a conspiracy by mine most trusted ancients.”
Both of the killers stopped, turning to look at him.
“Bull-bagels!” snapped Romario.  “Everyone bloody says that.”
Vespecci did not seem as skeptical.  “That’s terrible form, Romario.  The man very well may be telling the truth.”
Romario scoffed, turning back towards the path.  “Listen to his damnable fairy-story, then, you gullible oaf.  Just be quiet about it!  We’re approaching a guarded section.”
Iago’s inner smile grew at the sight of this mild enmity, for in his skillful hands even less than that could become a deadly weapon.  Vespecci now made sure to match his pace more closely.  “So, what happened, then?” he asked plaintively.
“Well, therein does the story lie...”

“As thou probably knows not, in times past I wert in the employ of the mercenary commander Othello,” Vespecci gasped at the mention of that name, indicating that the Moor’s reputation still resounded.  “In times past, I should stand before thee, his ensign, proclaiming his colours to all that would face him.  Long held I this office, e’er faithful since youth.  All that I have in the world, I owed to he.  It was in such trust,” a dramatic pause here, for effect, “that he didst betray me.  Anon, afore the greatest campaign undertaken in all our time, he did see fit to insinuate within my properties and reap bounties of some that be rightly only mine own.”  The giant seemed not to fully understand the meaning of that statement, but he did not interrupt.  

“‘Twas soon that a promotion had been guaranteed of me, that I should be as his lieutenant.  Aye, yet through some wicked devices he did learn of my knowledge of his treachery, and did immediately enlist a black rogue to design engines on mine life and sanity.”  Iago made note of the fact that Romario too had begun to listen in on his tale.  He continued on, not wishing to betray this knowledge.
“To this end did he hire the murderous knave Michael Cassio unto the office ascribed to me, leaving me yet unawares.  Yet did I begin to suspect, when the villain did strike a painful blow to the governor of Cyprus himself in a fit of drunken rage.  Only the blind could think that beast fit to aid a commander of men, and ne’er ‘gainst a foe savage as a Turk.  Nay, lost would be th’day had I not been conducting behind curtains.  Yet still, ‘twas the very eve of our conquest did the treacherous Moor further his insidious plot ‘gainst me.  Though forced he was to remove the bestial lieutenant from his office ere his drunken indiscretion be punished, plain was it that these events were not unorchestrated.  Were it pure chance, mine rightful position of lieutenant would again to me be presented.  But nay, empty lay the office for a time.  It was from the wife of the Moor, beshrewed and adultered by his malicious spirit, that I did at last learn the truth.”  
Vespecci’s attention could not have been drawn away by all the fireworks in the Orient.
Romario leaned back to hear as he walked, attentive though not willing to turn around.  Iago decided that an impressive climax was in order to complete his spell of words.

“Armed thus with the knowledge of his betrayal, I did seek out Othello and his minion and, with my trustworthy batman Roderigo as my second, did challenge the dark one to a duel.  Our crossed blades did ring out the hour, each of us struggling for purchase ‘gainst the other.  Poor Roderigo left this mortal coil ‘fore our duel had yet begun to warm, and thus did I wound Cassio in the leg to keep him aside.  Tho’ not unscathed did I come out, the Moor I found a grave man within two marks, leaving but Cassio to face the Thanatosian visage.  Fortune’s fickle humours undid this, however, and mine own treacherous wife did betray me to the rulers of Cyprus.  Upon seeing her slain mistress - wife to the Moor, dispatched for rendering unto me the sooth of his betrayal - she did her own life end.  But not - O!  Churlish day! - before bearing false witness of me, damning me as Impresario of the fell slaughter that had occurred, rather than but a man exacting forth his satisfaction.  For this, I art damned to this terrible pit.”

The two murderers stood in silence now, regarding Iago alternately in awe and confusion.
It seemed very likely that lowborn rogues such as they might not have understood the specifics of what he had said, however they had plainly gotten the gist of it.
“Does this...’Cassio’ person yet live?” Romario asked tentatively.
“Aye, that he does,” Iago began to feel more confident in the intent of his new allies.  “He was to have assumed Othello’s position in Cyprus when last I knew.”
“And for this black rogue, you’re wanting to hire us?”
“‘Tis true.”
Vespecci suddenly developed an odd expression, and pulled Romario aside.  As a gesture of good will, Iago refrained from listening in on their terse conversation.  He was therefore somewhat shocked when confronted with its subject.
“Have ye’ ever heard of a mercenary by the name of Cyrus of Aquitaine?” Vespecci asked as he turned back to him.

In fact, Iago had.  Furthermore, he had met him.  Cyrus of Aquitaine had served with Othello during several campaigns, and fought opposite him in at least two others.  He had seen first hand that the man was at least equal to the Moor in most respects, and may have been one of few that stood a chance of besting him in a duel.  
“A fiendish warrior, he,” Iago replied thoughtfully.  “Those who face him ofttimes face none that live again.”
“He has a fearsome reputation, aye,” Romario mused, “But you, friend, have bested Othello.  A man, I may add, whose tales equal - if not well surpass -  those of the Aquitainian.  If you can slay one, why not the other?”
Iago silently kicked himself for not expecting this.  Obviously, basing his plan off of Vespecci’s reactions had been ill advised.  His more learned colleague had apparently withheld vital information concerning their job, specifically the reputation of that ‘twit of a mercenary”.
“It is as apples and oranges, sirs,” he interjected, hoping to climb out of his personal pit.  “Though equal in skills those rogues are, identical they are not.  A blow that might cleave Othello in twain may ne’er e’en shave Cyrus’ forelock.  Mine own personal skills may well be great, but not of the right variety to fight one possessed of battle habits radically different from mine accustomed foe and mentor.”   This was, of course, utter codswollop.  Iago had fought many people with fighting styles radically different from Othello’s preferred Kalari Pahyit, finding the real problem to be skill.  And - though nothing to sneeze at in that department - his skill was definitely not the measure of either Othello or Cyrus.  
“Hmmph,” Romario stated, his eyes narrowing. “Interesting idea, Vespecci.  I would have liked that our new friend be of some tangible use to us, too.”
Iago considered this predicament for a moment, along with his desire to keep the two firmly in his corner.

“Mayhaps, though in a front-to-front battle I am not his measure, a plan of tactics could I devise that you may take him easier?” he put forward, wincing at the strain his words put on his credibility.
“Another interesting proposal.  You will still be paying us for the job on Cassio, I presume?”
“But of course,” which seemed possible, if he could only dig up the cash Roderigo had  ‘loaned’ him.  
Romario grinned in a manner that even Iago found most unsettling.
“Then again, perhaps you could be useful to us after all.  After you.”  The killer motioned toward the remainder of the tunnel.  A faint glow was now visible not ten paces away, emanating from an apparent crack in the wall.  Iago approached this wall, setting his ear to it.  Within moments the distinct sound of an argument came to his attention, along with the fact that most of it was in French.  Vespecci began to say something, only to be silenced by a withering glance from Romario.  After a few more minutes of observation, Iago returned to his compatriots.  
“A pair twain guard yon masked portal.  They argue in the tongue of our captors.”
Romario snorted.  “That’s it?  Shame they’re about to enter the employ of Lucifer.  Vespecci, open ‘er up.”  

The hulking slayer slunk up to the wall, carefully positioned his hands against it, then pressed in with his thumbs.  His efforts were rewarded by a swift grinding noise as a man sized section of wall slid away, revealing three very startled guards (one of whom had been leaning against that same wall) and a man in the livery of a Veronan noble’s aide.  Without hesitation, Iago reached past Vespecci to snatch away the closest guard’s rapier.  The poor blighter now had the misfortune of having to deal with Vespecci while unarmed for the rest of his life.  Both seconds of it.  In the meantime, Iago busied himself with engaging the guard closest to an alarum bell.  A quick lunge brought him between the man and the damning device, while simultaneously forcing him to backpedal away.  Iago smirked, entering a loose profiled stance.  Though his opponent had the advantage of being armored, the fact that he only carried a short sword easily balanced that out.  Iago also had the good fortune of having been relatively well tended before his rather long hang-drying; the person or persons responsible for this establishment had wanted him to be healthy before he was broken, as they had put it.  The guard edged backward, then sprang at him in an attempt to beat his guard aside.  Iago backpedaled,
parrying the blow and throwing the man off balance.  He swept the rapier into position for a
riposte, hovering like a viper about to strike.  The sound of a crossbow being cocked froze him in that position.  

He tilted his head so that he could get a better view of the proceedings.  Apparently, the last guard had been quicker than the rest, diving away from Vespecci’s grasp (and inflicting a mild cut on his hand) to pick up a heavy crossbow that had been propped up against a wall.  He now used said crossbow to cover both of them very effectively.  At least, that’s what he thought.  Just as the guard began to speak - no doubt to issue some ultimatum about surrender - a gleaming object flashed through the air and imbedded itself in his throat.  The force of the impact knocked the man flat on his back, killing him instantly.  All eyes shifted to the source of the silvery dart.  Romario now stood in the opening, still poised from his throw.  Though this feat did much to instill a greater sense of respect and awe for the man in Iago, he had never been one to let an opportunity slip past him.  His opponent found this out the hard way, as Iago closed with him and slit his throat while he was still distracted.  Romario stalked into the room, casually surveying the mayhem they had caused.  

“Three little pigs down, one wolf in peacock’s clothing to go,” he snarled, reaching under the guard’s card table and dragging out the liveried man.  
“G-g-greetings, Romario of the Knife,” the garishly dressed man squeaked, sheer terror smeared across his face like cheap rouge on a courtesan.
“Shaddup, Abraham,” he shook the smaller man for effect, “Those were not your men.  What the bloody Hell are you doing, allowing Chateau staff in here at our appointed rendezvous point!?”
“‘Twas not my doing, signior!  A powerful General out of Cyprus is come and did order great measures be taken to ensure the security of this prison, lest an enemy of his who art herein contained be ‘leased to the round once more!”
This piqued Iago’s interest.  “Pray tell, good sir, what art this General who is come here a’seeking his enemy?”
“The great Michael Cassio, champion of the Cyprian wars, won naught much more than a fortnight past.”
A deafening silence fell upon the room.  Iago’s hand strayed to his rapier, gripping the hilt convulsively in spite of his otherwise calm exterior.  Vespecci cracked his knuckles, creating a sound not unlike a gunshot.
“My friend,” he nodded to Iago, sounding just slightly exasperated, “our mutual escape from this hole of filth is just slightly more important than your revenge at this moment.  You mustn’t seek him out yet.”
Iago remained silent.  Abraham cleared his throat, eliciting a round of glares.
“Good sirs, the escape of which you spake must be with haste, ere it be at all.  A small craft awaits us, but not ‘till Doomsday I pray you!”

Romario at last put him back down.  “He’s got a point.  If we’re to get out of this place again, we’d best get a move on immediately.”
Iago’s gaze drifted to the slaughtered guards.  “What of these?  Surely they will arouse some inquiry.”
Romario grinned again.  “But somebody has to guard this dangerous murderer while we take him upstairs for worse punishment.”


The guard uniform had been about a size too big on its original owner, making it just about perfect for Iago.  A quick working over with Romario’s considerable cutlery related talents had been a passing substitute for a trip to the barber: the two of them now looked more like somewhat scruffy guardsmen than longtime detainees.  Iago made sure to wear his wide brimmed helmet low so as to disguise his features, just in case Cassio’s path should cross theirs by some foul chance.  Vespecci walked ahead of them, bent over with his wrists together.  Even fairly close up, it was hard to tell that his manacles were not connected at all.  Still, he favoured any and all onlookers with menacing glares.  Most avoided his gaze, regardless of how bound he looked.  Abraham took up the lead, looking as officious as possible.  It was easy to tell that even casual onlookers despised him on sight.  Their combined countenances made for an under abundance of questions, which suited them just fine.  The dank stone halls of the castle section of the prison were mostly deserted anyway, allowing plenty of time for reflection.  Iago hated reflection, preferring to brood instead.  Every moment that Cassio continued to draw breath was like a slap in his face, yet to break off and hunt him down could damn him to an eternity in this pit even if he succeeded.  As history would show, however, Iago had always been very patient about his revenge.  As much as it pained him to let the Florentine live any longer than necessary, there was simply no time to make him suffer properly and still make it out alive.  Once he had found a suitable base of operations on the outside, there would be plenty of time to devise such tortures as would break the man’s mind like glass.  Then, his newfound companions could do likewise to his body, or leave him to rot for all he cared.  For now, a new goal had begun to coalesce in his mind.  Power had always interested Iago greatly, and the great houses of Verona had it in abundance.  The feud between houses Capulet and Montague was famous even in the Venetian courts, even though some reports had said they were to have ceased.  Since they were hiring assassins to strike at each other, this was probably not the case.  Logically, if enough damage was caused by this, a power vacuum could ensue.  A vacuum that could be filled by certain new ‘friends of the family’, as long as they proved ‘Honest’ enough.  

At last, the party of four reached the surface.  The cool night air was tinged with the smell of the sea, confirming Iago’s suspicions that he had been imprisoned on an island.  The ancient keep that housed the prison towered above them, molding visibly over the few seconds he deemed to look at it.  It was clear to him that the powers that be in Venice severely disliked him these days, apparently having taken his previous actions somewhat personally.  Why they felt so escaped him.  His bemusement was cut off by the groups arrival at a sort of bridge overlooking the ocean.  Peering down, Iago thought he saw what looked like the wake of a boat moored just beneath the cliffs.
“How do we get down there...for that matter, how did we get up here in the first place!?” he said in an unusual fit of terseness brought on by stress.  

“There’s a path that spirals up the island,” Romario answered him matter-of-factly, “All ships have to dock down there, from which point their prisoners are escorted to the Chateau itself,” that wicked grin again, “Don’t worry, there’s no way for us to get out through that route.  It’s guarded ‘round the clock by a veritable army.  Unless the proprietor’s with you, anyone coming down the slope is slaughtered on sight.”
Abraham walked up to the side of the bridge, pulling a golden ball from his sleeve.  A garishly coloured cloth was attached to it by a pair of strings.  Without a word, he dropped the device over the side, then walked away from the edge.  And, finally, began to scream bloody murder.  The entire castle lit up like a Michaelmas celebration, the staff obviously trained to react differently to cries from that particular area than the rest of the island. The sound of metal-shod feet drowned out the lapping of the waves at the shore, as dozens of guardsmen rushed from all directions to see what the commotion was all about.  Iago stood stunned, unable to understand precisely what was going on.  Had Abraham betrayed them?  Or had he alone been singled out as part of some elaborate trap?  His confusion was only compounded when the first group of guards hove around the corner.  The moment this occurred, Romario drew the short sword he had pilfered from one of the slain guards...and rushed Vespecci like a man possessed.  The giant wasted no time, catching him in the chest with a powerful blow that hurled him over the bridge.  Iago whipped out his own rapier, beginning to see the potential for some sort of plot.  He rushed at Vespecci, swinging his blade.  He took special care in keeping it oriented away from him, while at the same time looking like he was attacking.  As he expected, Vespecci reached out with ease, grabbed him by the collar, and hurled him off the bridge after Romario.  


It seemed safe to assume that he was about to die.  No sane man could have expected anything else, having been dropped from such a height into the roiling sea.  Of course, one must take a few factors into account: One, Iago was never really what one would call a ‘sane’ man to begin with; two, the sea was relatively calm, and still fairly warm by that point in the evening; and three, he did not land in it.  The purpose of the golden ball clicked in his mind a few moments before he hit, prompting him to go limp.  As he now expected, he crashed into a large bale of hay on the deck of Abraham’s ship, rather than into the depths of the Adriatic.  A pair of crewmen pulled him to his feet, dragging him out of the pile.  Moments later, a spray of hay strands and a muffled *whumpf* noise heralded the arrival of Vespecci.  Immediately, the boat pulled back into the cove where it had been hiding.  Romario clapped him on the back, his grin looking more evil than ever somehow.  “Told you it would work.”
Iago suddenly realized that he should be angry.  “Prithee, wherefore were it needed that I not know of thy plan?”
“Some people don’t like being tossed from great heights.  Would you honestly have gone along with it if we’d told you ahead of time?”  
Iago began to reply, then realized that he probably would not have.  Vespecci stood up unsteadily, the front of his shirt covered in some kind of black soot.  His shoulder bled from some kind of wound.
“One o’ the guards obviously remembers me from last time,” he grunted, “He seemed to think a musket ball was a more appropriate parting gift than those sword blows his friends had for me.”
“You’ve had worse, remember?” Romario laughed, apparently remembering the incident.  “Abraham said he had a couple of surgeons on hand just in case.”  The smaller killer then turned back to Iago, who looked at him uncertainly.
“Thou spak’st of a time past when such an exit was made before by thee,” he inquired, in his usual convoluted manner.  “Wherefore wouldst the prison keeper allow such rogues as thee to return to his place had you escaped once?”

Romario’s grin reached a depth of evil that Iago had never even thought possible, causing a moth to die in mid flight as it crossed in front of his face.
“My dear Iago, the prison keeper who lorded over Vespecci and I the last time no longer lives.  I had to improvise, much as I did for that guard with the crossbow.”
“I had much meant to ask: What manner of weapon forced him from this mortal coil?”
“A spoon.”
“But is not thy title-?”
“Like I said, I had to improvise.”

It was not long before they were under way.  Abraham was escorted back to the ship in the morning, whatever pretense of business he had used now finished.  As they struck out for Verona, Iago noticed a second ship in the distance paralleling their course.
“What in the thousand Hells art that?” he inquired of no one in particular.
Romario, who had been cleaning his trademark knives nearby, deemed to answer.
“According to Abraham, Cassio too has business in Verona.  He was quite put out about not being able to see you suffer, I hear.”
“As is the brute’s want.  His vices shall become all the more familiar should’st we face him in fair Verona.”
“Aye, so you say...” Romario looked pensive now, which Iago found even more disturbing than his grin.  “Rest yourself.  You’ll need your strength if you are to survive out business in Verona.  Abraham says that we will be working with several other of our profession in this job.”
Iago looked at him in puzzlement.  “Is that not fortuitous?”

Romario shook his head.  “Assassins who are not partnered rarely work together on the same job.  Rather, we compete ‘gainst each other.  I’ll wager we’ll be fighting the others off nearly as much as we fight our target.”
Iago sighed.  “This business of murder is of much complication for one such as I.”
“I’ll just bet,” Romario muttered, picking up his knives and walking off.  

That night, Romario and Vespecci stood on the deck.  They observed the Venetian frigate as it coursed parallel to them at a distance.
“We’ll have to kill him, you know,” muttered Vespecci, staring ahead.
“I’d already figured that out,” Romario replied, “He’s too much of a risk to keep around.”
“Shame, really.  Someone so prominent and all.”
“It’s got to be done, though.  We can use his presence to our advantage for a while, maybe even find a way to use it against the mercenary.  But in the end, he’s got to go.”
They stood in silence for a while.  Then Vespecci spoke again.
“It just feels wrong, Romario.  I mean, he’s so...Honest.  And loyal, and upstanding, and stuff.”
“Oh come off it, you Nimrod!  That kind of talk makes me want to wretch!”
Another pause, and then:
“Besides, that’s exactly why we have to kill him!  Someone like that could never resist turning us in to the authorities.  Make no mistake, Honest Iago there will be the death of us, unless we do him the favour first.” -To be Continued...